


Ambergris

by thesignsofserbia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Divergence - The Empty Hearse, Fix-It of Sorts, Friends to Lovers, John finally redeems himself, M/M, Not Season four compliant EITHER, Not Season/Series 03 Compliant, Pining, Post-Reichenbach, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Reconciliation, Sickfic, a bit at least
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-29
Updated: 2017-01-29
Packaged: 2018-09-20 16:27:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9500072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesignsofserbia/pseuds/thesignsofserbia
Summary: He can see the John he knows, the John from Before, and he wants to reach for him. But when he speaks, if he speaks; it’s always the John from After talking.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Working title, Stomach Ulcer, and I thought I'd say that here, because those two words started the whole thing.

 

 

Since Mycroft dragged him out from the dark, his mind feels different. The world around him is one step removed from where it had been when he left. It’s like his colour spectrum has shifted, and he has slipped through the gaps in physical law and into the theoretical plane. It’s improbable, but not impossible. There is some precedence.

 

Take for example, a neutrino particle. They exist almost entirely without mass or electrical charge, defying laws of perpetual motion. Unaffected by magnetic fields, they can pass through almost anything unaffected, travelling across the universe without interference. It’s like the world cannot touch them.

 

So maybe he’s not a ghost at all; maybe he’s a _neutrino particle_. It feels more fitting, for the sake of the metaphor at least.

 

He weaves in and out, too numb to focus. He does nothing. For six days he does as close to nothing as physically possible. Because his world has been destroyed, and he is dead. What else is there left to do?

 

He wanted to play it safe this time. No unnecessary risks; that was what Mycroft told him. And he listened. But then he took the risks, and they were _all_ necessary. He wanted to be thorough and methodical, to take a logical approach. And he did, he really tried; checking and triple checking. Pouring over evidence until his eyes crossed; he would scope out locations from every angle, days before the hit. God he was so, so careful.

 

That didn’t stop everything from going to shit at every possible opportunity.

 

Because really it was a miracle to have been as successful as he was. Honestly? Mycroft can go fuck himself, because everything he taught Sherlock was _wrong_. Planning makes up, oh; maybe one sixth of what is necessary to destroy an international criminal empire. His brother knows nothing of legwork. Situations arise that you could not possibly have foreseen, you are forced to improvise. You the take risks as they come, or you die, there is no third option.

 

The strategic process can be quite difficult to follow when you’re trying to do so whilst strapped to the unpredictable spinning carnival ride from hell. All Sherlock wanted is for it to be over, so desperate to escape. He knew exactly what he had to do to be free of it. And he had just known that inevitably; he was going to fuck it up.

 

So the further he went the more anxious he became. Because he was only too aware, that with every move, the stakes only grew that much higher. One second was all it would take to bring his world and everything that was in it, tumbling down. He could see exactly how far he’d come, everything he’d risked, and it was terrifying to think he would make it so far, and all be for nothing. He was truly terrified. Of that one second.

 

The fear was helpful in keeping him alive, and catastrophic for moving him forward. Again; paralytic, not motivator. Fear wasn’t what was motivating him.

 

He was a ghost then too, but very much _not_ immune. He could hear the timer ticking down, but he couldn’t read the clock. It didn’t matter how clever he was, or who he’d been before. All he’d known for certain; was that he was running out of seconds. He was just very small and _very_ alone.

 

There were so many times when he wanted to give up, but only one time that he actually did. When the seconds ticked down to that very last one.

 

He lost. That may not be what the history books say, but he will always know. It was a pitiful surrender. He didn’t defeat Moriarty’s empire, slay the dragons, and burn their castles to the ground. He did 98 percent of it, and then he dissolved to the point where he was a liability to the extraction team.

 

Serbia. He can’t even hear the word now without stiffening, biting his tongue until it bleeds.

 

He didn’t understand at first that he was being rescued. Wasn’t even aware enough to recognise his _own brother_ walking into That Room. His torture chamber. He’s not quite sure what happened after that, but Mycroft hasn’t looked at him the same since.

 

But to be fair, neither has Sherlock.

 

Starting again from scratch mentally, emotionally, and physically after having embraced death…it’s a peculiar thing. He gave up, he gave in. He tried everything, and he failed. Sherlock had known with utter certainty that he was going to die there, in that place; that this was truly the end of the road for him.

 

But the world is not done with him yet. It beats him to the point of death, pushes him to his feet, and demands that he carry on. But accepting one’s death, and knowing that it will happen in such a horrific manner; this is not a state of mind that can so easily be shrugged off.

 

Coming to terms with the fact that he is alive, and comprehending everything that has happened to him is something he struggles with daily. He had shut himself down to such an extent that he is very subdued, functioning on emergency power. That had been his last line of defense; a complete reset, erase _everything,_ break his mind down to the bare factory settings. It was the only way to protect them. 

 

Mycroft intervened before it came to that, but it was a close thing.

 

That place, he finds reminders everywhere, little details that take him back. The most terrifying thing of which he is aware. He would do unspeakable things, anything really, if it meant never having to see That Room again.

 

The dreams don’t seem to care about that.

 

These things hurt, but not as much as they should. He’s numb. Mycroft says he’s still in shock, that he hasn’t processed everything yet. If it’s true then he is perfectly fine with that. Numbness is good, it’s do-able. He remembers what it was like without the numbness. He never wants it to wear off.

 

Xx

 

He keeps waiting to fall apart, to snap, or dissolve into some sort of catatonic state. But it doesn’t happen. He keeps going, one foot in front of the other, and for the life of him, he can’t understand how.

 

The world keeps spinning. But it’s too fast somehow, and he can't seem to keep up.

One day is indistinguishable from the next. He lifts his head to find them staring, waiting on the answer to a question, a conversation he hadn't even registered was happening, never mind having followed.

 

He barely notices time passing. He tries to pay attention, he really does, but then he’ll blink and hours have gone by unchecked.  He loses count. He'll open his mouth to speak, and the room will be empty. They left hours ago. Maybe even days, it’s hard to keep track. That scares him, it scares him to death. The clock has stopped. He’s still stuck on that last second.

 

He wakes up in the middle of the night. He’s crying. He can’t _stop_ crying. The tears falling as fast as he wipes them away. He hasn’t the first clue what to do with himself. Should he just roll over and go back to sleep? Make a pot of tea? Overdose? He honestly doesn’t know. They all seem equally viable options.

 

The transition was never going to be easy; He’d been expecting difficulty, but in quite different ways. He’s not familiar with this particular brand of stress. It is both over, and underwhelming.

 

He’s not quite dead anymore, but that doesn’t mean he’s not a ghost.

 

It’s very much like being a foreign traveller in a strange city; but the city is his own. It’s the familiarity that is most surprising. Things have not changed all that much in his absence, London has not moved, the earth has not been shaken. He self-destructed for this city, and it hasn’t even left a dent. But he didn’t do it just for her; at least a few had felt it.

 

He marvels at the crowds that push around him, hundreds of people, moving in tandem, in a strange mutually-agreed-upon pattern. Structured, organised, like ants or bees. They tut and look at him strangely, but they flow around him like an island, and it really is quite fascinating to watch.

 

As if pulled by individual pieces of string, they go about their respective lives, so concentrated, they stride with purpose. Focused on their destination. They're stressed, angry, depressed, excited, frustrated, tired, amused, content. Some of them are happy.

All Sherlock feels is dizzy.

 

The world is still concerned about advertising tinsel 3 months before Christmas, or whether or not to take an umbrella to work. _Sherlock_ is still concerned that his failures might result in the brutal assassinations of everyone he cares about.

 

A man on the tube blinks and his contact lens falls out. _He_ blinks and is assaulted with the smell of blood, and the sounds of screaming. There’s a disconnect between the two. They don’t belong in the same place somehow. It’s surreal.

 

It’s an assault on the senses. Too many people, too many voices, too many scents and sounds to keep track of. It’s as enthralling as it’s always been, but now it’s also…too much. Enough to bring on a migraine. As a result he barely leaves the flat.

 

He might be able to fix this, get his life back. If he could just keep _up_. But he can’t think. He hasn't time. He's disoriented, constantly; so confused that he just freezes. It’s a fugue state, nothing is quite as real as it was before, he’s removed from himself, but still so painfully present.

 

Comfort zone? He doesn't even know where that is anymore, if ever. He may not have one. But if he does, he'd really like to find out.

 

Mycroft is worried about him, which he supposes is fair enough. If people are twenty levels below his brother, then Sherlock must be well out of sight by now. Sink or Swim.

 

In his dreams, he is caught in the face of a king tide, and his feet are made of lead. He’s rendered powerless to watch as the water licks closer across the sand to greet him, rising up past his neck and his last breath of air. He wakes bathed in sweat and aching all over.

 

Xx

 

When John moves back in, he is nervous. If only because he is so very desperate for him to stay. He worries he won’t know how to react correctly, to take part in conversation, make all the right noises in all the right places. He wants to get it right for John, to be normal again. But he’s spent so much time as a ghost, that he fears he’s forgotten how to live.

 

John’s presence is both a blessing and a curse, because John is _here_ , in Baker Street at last, but the shock is wearing off, and he’s not sure if he’s ready to wake up just yet.

 

And when the shock is gone; the chaos moves in.

 

Xx

 

He’d trained his body not to rest of course. That had been essential. Controlling his sleep cycle is something he’s always been fairly good at, and he was incredibly glad for this during his time abroad. The exhaustion had been terrible, but he powered through it.

 

Of course, everything is fucked now because of it.

 

Sherlock _misses_ the shock, he wants to go back to sleep walking, because now he never gets any peace.

 

His skin _crawls_. He twitches at the noises on the street, at everything really. Just like in the dream, the world rushes up to him all at once, swallowing him up. But now that he’s alive; his nerves are on _fire_.

 

The timer has come to life again too, with a vengeance that shakes him. The numbers fly, erratic and unpredictable, clock wildly overcompensating for what it lost. Externally though, life keeps pace, and there’s never been so many hours in a day. Sleeping only makes him feel worse. So he doesn’t sleep.

 

He sits on the floor and drinks black coffee like its water.

 

He sits for _hours_. Until he’s no longer sure if it’s day or night. Not just coffee either; chocolate, energy drinks, cartons and _cartons_ of cigarettes; legal stimulants. It’s not enough, but it will have to do for now. He’s coping. The only way he knows how.

 

The pain in his stomach is terrible; it feels like his insides are rotting.

 

It upsets Sherlock, _disturbs him_ , that John hasn’t actually _noticed_ any of this. Or if he has, he’s doing an excellent job of hiding it. He complains about the smoking, he frowns about the coffee, and he raises eyebrows at the chocolate, but that’s as far as his concerns go.

 

John doesn’t even seem to notice that he’s wasting away.

 

People assume that he wouldn’t, because they think he is unbreakable, that it doesn’t bother him in the same way. But there are days when he really does want to talk about it. Because no one else knows; not anyone. And he _has_ to tell _someone._ Just one person, that’s all he needs. Someone who will listen, and understand what he went through, so at least then it won’t just be him.

 

The knowledge is eating him faster than his stomach lining.

 

He finds himself struggling, like he’s treading water in the dark. All his life people have been telling him that you’re allowed to ask for help if you need it. You’re not supposed to go through it alone. And he’s finally listening. But, he doesn’t _have_ anyone to tell.

 

John is right there, but he can’t reach him. There may as well be an _‘emotionally unavailable, please come back later,_ ’ sign hovering about him, because John is a firmly closed door. He can’t be sure if passive aggressive is progress, or if John has simply grown tired of telling Sherlock to fuck off outright.

 

Sherlock is physically present in the flat, and John acknowledges that at least, so he can say with relative certainty that John isn’t actively ignoring him, but he is still definitely avoiding him.

 

But John has come home, and that is what matters the most. The rest will follow in time.

 

Unfortunately, these days, time is rarely on his side. Bad is quickly snowballing into worse, and right now some support would be… quite reassuring actually. Just a little casual conversation, or even a smile. It’s been years since he’s seen John smile. Or laugh. He hadn’t realised how much he’s missed it.

 

John shouts at him for using all the coffee. So when John leaves for work, he goes out and buys five bags, all John’s favourite. John barely touches it; but that’s alright, he never was much one for coffee. _Tea and wool jumpers._

 

Nevermind. Sherlock won’t let it go to waste.

 

He never thought he’d feel like this. He wants to talk to John about it, but he just doesn’t know how to initiate that line of communication. Especially as currently, they barely manage at the conversational level.

 

On these days, when it’s bad, when he needs someone to talk to, he feels so isolated, eyes tracking John around the flat, willing him to see, to ask, to _care_. John walks by him again and again, doing little domestic things, making little domestic noises while Sherlock stays frozen, helpless; drowns himself in coffee.

 

He can see the John he knows, the John from Before, and he wants to reach for him. But when he speaks, _if_ he speaks; it’s always the John from After talking.

 

Exhaustion is screwing with his head, and though his body is practically immobile, his thought processes are positively _manic_. He starts to panic that maybe John can’t see him at all. He pours another cup to calm him down.

 

He’s not hiding it now. He’s done running. Done hiding. Done being alone and in pain. He wants John to see. He needs him to. He just wants them to be together, in any way they can.

 

The real issue here, is the one he needs help with. Because he does. He needs help. _That_ sort of help, the type he’s always resisted. Because while Sherlock may be done being afraid, the fear is not done with him. And he can’t run from it; he’s already crossed the finish line back into London, only it hasn’t stopped chasing him, and now there’s nowhere left to go.

 

Being tortured, he’d thought, _‘nothing could possibly be worse than this, nothing.’_ How terrifying it would have been to know that he was wrong. That the aftermath is much worse, because isn’t this what he has always feared the most? That he had always known was a possibility for him?

 

Over the span of three decades, people have awarded him with more labels than he can count. He’s always resisted it. At least internally, he’s never accepted a diagnosis. Because in his heart, he knows that it isn’t true. He has never been mad, no matter what anyone says. He is Not insane.

 

However. The seriousness of his current state of mind is becoming to be of legitimate concern. And he is concerned. For the first time, he is starting to have doubts.

 

He’s fast reaching crisis point. Of that he is very aware. He knows his own mind, and if he continues spiralling down with his current trajectory it can only end two ways. And he knows which one he’d prefer. Sedation. Confinement. The loss of every.personal.liberty. Once that happens, there’s no coming back, not for him. He’ll die before he lets that happen.

 

And he doesn’t want to die.

 

Sherlock’s body is, quite frankly, a mess. Very visibly so, he looks ill. He shakes, he tugs at his hair to anchor himself, and the ache in his stomach just won’t quit. Wound tight like a coiled spring on the sofa, arms around his knees, eyes burning from countless hours without rest. He’s pleading desperately with the back of John’s head.

 

_Turn around. Turn around and look. Look at me!_

 

John leaves for work.

 

Xx

 

One night he wakes to absolute agony. His stomach is burning and he can barely move. He wonders; can you actually die from a stomach ache? Upon weighing the evidence, he decides that yes, you most definitely can.

 

But that doesn’t mean he intends to.

 

Inching towards the edge of the mattress with his palms, he slowly, _slowly_ lowers himself to the ground; testing the waters. And the feedback is not good. It becomes clear that holding his torso upright is an impossible feat. Crawling it is.

 

Dragging himself five feet to the bathroom takes far longer than it should; he has to stop nine times before he makes it. After an eternity, he reaches the toilet, vomiting coffee almost to the point of passing out. Which turns out to be a mistake. Once his stomach is empty, the pain only worsens, accompanied by a rapidly developing pain in his chest. And that cannot be good.

 

There are antacids in the bathroom cabinet, behind the mirror.

 

He cannot physically get to the kitchen in his current state, so he rules that one out entirely, and with his phone still safely in the bedroom; they’re looking like his best option.

 

Okay then. He looks up at the mirror, judging the distance, trying to work out how he is _possibly_ going to get all the way up there. His pain tolerance is high, but he has been too numb to register it for a very long time. He’s doubled over and panting already, but still, he has to try.

 

Slowly, with more than a little dread, he lowers the seat cover on the toilet. It closes with more finality than it has any right to. With his palms firmly planted, he takes a deep breath that doesn’t reassure him at all, and pulls himself up off the floor.

 

As soon as he moves, he regrets it. Clutching the bowl, he manages to lever himself over the toilet on his belly, and oh God does it _burn_. The pain sends him scrambling to get his legs up beneath him, in a desperate effort to relieve the pressure on his abdomen. The room begins to spin sickeningly, and it keeps going, even when his eyes are screwed shut.

 

He stays that way for a long time, light headed and gasping, in as much of a foetal position as is possible for a grown man perched on a toilet. Time slows down. He’s tired, his eyes are streaming, and he’s shaking from the effort, but…he’s half way there. Or at least that’s what he tells himself.

 

The question is what to do now. He can’t stay this way forever, and if he falls asleep, it’s very likely he will fall off, taking him back to square one. The basin is upwards to his right, but still a good half-foot away, and the cabinet above seems unreachable. The urge to give up is strong. It feels like one more movement and his stomach will rupture. The pain is definitely getting worse.

 

He has to think.

 

After some deliberation, he manages to manoeuvre himself so that his arse is on the seat with his legs pulled close to his chest. Being vertical hurts at least 10% more than it did before, and he perpendicular to the sink, but he hasn’t a choice if he wants the leverage. Eyes on the prize.

 

He does some light reconnaissance, to determine the best way to tackle this. From here, he can reach out and touch the ceramic, and if he stretches just a little, he can easily grasp the edge. It suddenly hits him how pathetically hopeful this small victory has made him. He’s Sherlock Holmes, and his entire world has narrowed down to the point where being able to reach a bathroom sink is a momentous achievement.

 

For a full thirty seconds, all he can feel is self-hatred.

 

It feels like hours have passed throughout his aching ascent, and they’ve drained him terribly, but he can’t allow for pessimism now. If he waits too long, the adrenaline will dissipate, and he’ll have lost his chance. It’s pathetic and degrading, but it is what it is.

 

There’s conserving energy, and then there’s procrastination, which is exactly the opposite, and, incidentally, _exactly_ what he is doing now. He cannot afford to waste his strength. He has to go for it.

 

He lunges with his right arm for the basin, but the marble is cool, and his hand is sweaty, it slips, swinging him of course. The momentum carries him forward and down, and he cries out, his forehead crashing into the bowl. The impact jars him, and he very nearly vomits.

 

He’s left hanging by his arm, knees perilously close to the edge of the toilet seat, fingers grasping for purchase. The arm shakes violently as his bicep struggles to draw his weight up. He’s sure he’ll slip and fall. But he doesn’t, he gets there. His left forearm bears most of his weight now, digging into the side of the basin. Now for the cabinet.

 

Stretching is Bad, stretching is _Very_ Bad. He can barely _breathe._ Every instinct inside him is screaming to curl into a ball, so he does precisely the opposite. His right arm straining upwards, fingers scrabble at the edge of the mirror, trying to force it into swinging open.

 

There’s not enough leverage. He flails again and again, hand slapping ineffectively against the glass, swiping for the edge and missing, until he’s sure he can’t hold on any longer. But he swings his arm one last time, and _somehow_ manages to push it ajar just enough to get his hand in.

 

Now is not the time for finesse, so he makes a scoop with his palm, and sweeps everything in reach out, hard enough that it all crashes onto the floor, bouncing and skittling away. Muscles give way, and he crashes down, landing hard into an undignified heap on the tiles. For a long time he just lies there moaning, aching all over, with shooting pains that set fire to his gut. He couldn’t get up now if his life depended on it.

 

Hopefully it won’t have to. Groping around blindly, he just prays that out of everything that fell, the antacid bottle is one of them. Because if it isn’t, he’s going to cry.

 

He finds them underneath the towel rack, and the high from the relief is just enough to keep his eyes open. After chewing and swallowing a handful dry, he closes his eyes, and unceremoniously passes out. Quite deservedly so.

 

When he becomes aware again, dawn is just breaking, and the café below is coming to life, little noises filtering in. He opens his eyes to find himself still curled up on the floor of the bathroom, face pressed against the tiles. He’s half frozen, but the antacids seem to have done their job.

 

He stands cautiously, chews six more tablets in fast succession, taste be damned, and picks himself up to get on with the day.

 

When John comes down for breakfast hours later, he finds Sherlock showered, dressed, and seated at the kitchen table with his coffee, like nothing ever happened.  Sherlock adds antacids to the shopping list, and John is none the wiser.

 

Xx

 

A course of anti-biotics and a couple of H2 blockers later, and Sherlock is right as rain. A stomach ulcer as it turned out, a couple of them anyway. Surgery was a close thing Mycroft’s doctors tell him, but he didn’t need it in the end, which is just as well, he’s had a few of those already, best not to make a habit of it.

 

Ordinary doctors were of course completely out of the question; after all, he has some of the most highly classified scars in the country. There’s also the added benefit of discretion; no questions asked. That still doesn’t save him the lectures. He’s too thin, he’s too tired, his iron levels are far too low, his blood pressure is tanking, and his heart rate is alarmingly high. He probably needs a psych eval.

 

Mycroft extracts him quite soon after that.

 

The route Mycroft’s car takes them is all wrong, and for a moment his heart flutters in his chest, but they’re not Taking Him Away, turns out his brother just wants to _talk_. And they’re going to keep driving until they do. In circles. How apt.

 

“How did this happen Sherlock?” His brother’s voice is gentle, which he hates, but it comes as a relief too. Playing their usual game is exhausting, and he thinks they’re both far too tired for that.

 

Mycroft looks to have aged five years in the last two, and he feels a pang of regret. He’s never really wanted to hurt him.

 

They’ve both avoided talking about John thus far, out of mutual agreement. But Sherlock’s recent escapade has brought the topic to the forefront. Because John Watson is a doctor, and he should have known.

 

“I didn’t tell him.”

 

Mycroft’s mouth forms a thin line.

 

“And he didn’t ask.” The edge to his voice makes Sherlock bristle slightly; John is not entirely to blame here. He did go to great lengths to keep it from him. It’s just a shame John didn’t ask about everything else.

 

“He didn’t see Mycroft, I didn’t let him,” then softer; “We’re not on the best of terms right now.”

 

Mycroft sighs, and for once it isn’t pompous. He’s not making a point, he’s just tired.

 

“You cannot keep doing this to yourself Sherlock. It’s killing you.”

 

What can he possibly say to that? He’s not wrong, it probably _is_ killing him, he’s just not sure there’s anything to be done about it. Something has to give. But tectonic plates might break before John.

 

“I know.”

 

They drive on in silence. He closes his eyes and focuses on the sensation of the movement alone, the purring of the engine, tires racing over tarmac. He could drive like this for hours, counting the minutes between the switch in gears. He imagines he can see through the floor and past the chassis, down to the blurring road beneath.

 

He used to do it as a child; he so very much wanted to know what it looked like. Almost like static, but rough and dangerous. He opened the door to see once on the motorway, and the back wind off the roof blew it wide, the car protesting violently at the change in equilibrium. But for the seatbelt, he would have been dragged out with it.

 

It was so beautiful, the excitement, the roar; just what he’d thought it might be, but then there was screaming. His father fell silent, and Mummy cried the whole way home.

 

Mycroft doesn’t say another word ‘til the car pulls up, and he’s surprised to find that the drive had been just what he needed; a welcome respite.

 

“I worry about you.” It’s openly sincere.

 

“I know Mycroft. And I…appreciate that.” It’s always been true, in a way, he’s just never known how to admit it.

 

“I can’t watch you die again brother.”

 

He doesn’t point out that he didn’t. He doesn’t say anything at all, but he doesn’t look away. Because it’s as close to ‘I love you,’ as they come. He nods awkwardly, and moves to get out the car.

 

Mycroft reaches out his arm, and he stops. They watch one another cautiously, each one waiting for the catch, but it never comes, so he returns the favour. They grasp forearms; more intimate than any handshake, but not so sentimental as a hug. It’s just enough.  
  
“I’ll do my best.”

 

Xx

 

Against the odds, the tectonic plates win.

 

“What’s _wrong_ with you?”

 

It comes from absolutely _nowhere_ , and Sherlock looks up sharply from his lo mein. For a moment, all he can do is stare. It’s the inflection on the second word that breaks his heart.

 

But it is with all four of those words, that John eviscerates him and then goes right back to his fried rice, leaving Sherlock holding his intestines in his hands, blood slowly dripping to the kitchen floor. He watches John chew a piece of broccoli stalk, and wants to disappear.

 

Sherlock thinks he may cry.

 

He can't speak to answer him. He's never felt more hurt from one sentence in his life. John struck the match and burnt all the oxygen from his lungs, and he doesn’t seem to care at all.

 

Eventually, when no reply is forthcoming, John puts his spoon down and _sees_.

 

“What? No, Sherlock, _Christ no_. That's not what I meant. At All. I just…I know you’re not okay. And I’m asking.”

 

Oh. Right.

 

John didn't mean his words to cut. But his mouth has been so sharp of late, that it wasn't such a difficult leap. It doesn't make him feel better at all. The taste of bile still lingers.

 

Across the table, John pushes his plate aside, and looks at him properly for the first time in two years. Sherlock’s face is burning.

 

“Have I really been that cold?”

 

Sherlock never bothers to answer, the deafening silence takes good care of that. A mirror image of John's  rejection the last few weeks.

 

“Right. Yeah, stupid question, sorry.” He _does_ seem sorry.

 

Fingers fiddle with cutlery, with napkins, with grooves in the table.

 

“I’ve not been very fair to you, have I?”

 

Again it’s rhetorical, but this time deliberately so. John’s not asking, he’s certain of it. And it is quite overdue. Sherlock considers his answer, how to agree, and not make it sound angry? There’s a very slight chance that it will set John off, there’s also a high probability that it won’t, but he doesn’t want an argument now. Or ever again actually.

 

He nudges a baby sweetcorn, “Not really, no.”

 

John swallows so loudly it could echo through a well. And Sherlock isn’t angry, he’s just still so desperately alone.

 

“You never said.”

 

Sherlock looks up to him with resignation, and says as gently as he can; “Would you have heard me if I did?”

 

John’s face seems to split down the middle, but his gaze doesn’t break. He has the horror of a child, who in trying to save it, has killed a spider by mistake; the understanding comes, but it’s just that little bit too late.

 

John’s lip moves strangely, wobbles, almost like in a children’s cartoon. Sherlock didn’t know that was possible.

 

“If I say I’m sorry now, will you believe it?”

 

 _Yes_.

 

But he does still need to hear it.

 

“Because I could spend a lifetime saying it, and it would never be enough. I was so bitter and angry I’d convinced myself that I was in the right so much, that I pretended it was justified to take a nose dive to the left.”

 

That was by far one of the best apologies he has ever received. Usually they try and turn it back around on you somehow, even if not maliciously, it’s to seek their own forgiveness rather than yours. John will not forgive himself for this, oh but Sherlock- he will.

 

“God, I’m so sorry Sherlock. For everything I did to you, for shutting you out, for hurting you; for making you feel like…that.”

 

It’s enough, it’s more than enough.

 

“I love you, you know.” They’re heavy words, and they’ve been weighing him down for a long time now. He was beginning to think he’d never say it, never be able to force them from his throat.  But he was wrong. It’s easy to say it, the most natural thing in the world.

 

John’s face crumples this time, it doesn’t split, and at first Sherlock thinks he’s about to sob, but he’s nodding, jerkily, again and again; nodding with self-hatred because he’s known all along.

 

“ _Yes_.” He says it like it makes things even worse, and in a way maybe it does. “I do, I do know. I think I’ve known for a while actually, but I’m only realising it now.”

 

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

 

John half sobs this time for real, but the other half is a laugh. He finds himself smiling back, because it’s funny, regardless of whether it should be or not. Oh, and there he is; John is back, the one he knows from that very first night.

 

Hello John.

 

“For what it’s worth, I’m in love with you. I only wish I’d worked it out sooner.”

 

It’s worth its weight in Ambergris, in dark matter, in gold. Because everything has lead up to this, years and months counting down to minutes, building to this perfect climax, but;

 

“I was never sure.”

 

John stares at him in disbelief. “You _knew_?”

 

He shakes his head, “No,” and he’s laughing, because it always comes back to that night, that very _first_ second; “I _guessed_.”

 

Xx

 

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a long time since I posted anything, but season four was a bit bumpy wasn't it, so here's to ignoring that; have some of the exact stuff I usually write about.


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